The mid morning sun shone down on the Domina Town square, warming the air and smiling down at the rustic buildings. The light danced off the happily burbling water of the fountain of the Mana Angel as a sproutling idly kicked at cobblestones, watching the townsfolk go about their business. Nothing could shatter the peacefulness, it seemed. Nothing, that is, except for two loud shouts, soon followed by their accompanying shouters, who were in the process of being flung quite forcibly from the Mana's Blessing Inn. None of the townsfolk so much as blinked, as this was a rather common occurrence.
Hecatonchires dusted himself off and looked about, squinting in the sudden brightness, trying to trace the events that led to how he found himself outside so quickly. Last he recalled, he was being yelled at by an irate (not to mention obese) canary, then next thing he knew, he was sailing through the air, only to come to a rather sudden halt, courtesy of the rough Domina cobblestone streets. Fortunately, his fall was broken by the long-haired demon hunter.
"You okay?" Hecatonchires asked. The only response he got was a faint "Unk," so he assumed the best and stood, dusting himself off. "Unk" was, after all, not a "Help!" or even an "Ow." He mused it must be a local term meaning "No problem, any time." Rather verbose for one word, but there's no accounting for local customs... And speaking of local customs, why in the Mana Goddess' name was that kid wearing leaves?
"Hello," the sproutling said happily. "I like drinking water. I also like, you know, walking on leaves."
"Uh, that's great, kid. I was wondering, could you tell me--" he started.
"We've got no souls, you know. The poet Pokiehl said so," chimed the sproutling in the same tone.
"Uh, wonderful, but I was wondering, where can I find--" Hecatonchires started again.
The sproutling cut him off again, with the same singsong voice. "The cow isn't anywhere. It's inside my mind."
"Look, kid! I just want to know where the pub is!"
"...Pub? They make drinks made out of dead plants there. You shouldn't go there."
"Yeah, well, my clothes are made out of dead cotton plants too, so I don't think I need to wo..." Hecatonchires trailed off at the look he got from the sproutling. "You okay, kid?"
The sproutling's eyes went blank as it spoke, "You will be assimilated into the Sproutling Collective. Resistance is silly."
Hecatonchires was not dull, neither was he keen on being part of whatever bizarre cult it was that required its embittered treehugging midget members to wear leaves, so he did what any sensible person would've done. He pointed at the heap of a demon hunter, said something about how he enjoyed eating sunflower seeds, then hightailed it down the nearest convenient alley, only to discover an oversized pumpkin.
"Hey, Jack. Got any change?" it asked. At his guest's incredulous look, it continued "Yeah, I know what you're thinking. I used to be part of a plan to take over the world with giant pumpkins, but the kid who was behind it got his bum kicked by some yahoo with poor choice in headgear. So, here I am, wasting away in this back alley, washed up, just waiting for the town punks to come with baseball bats..."
Hecatonchires would have loved to stay and chat, but his better sense told him he was safer somewhere else, somewhere far away from vegetables, talkative or otherwise, especially those bent on avenging their fallen brethren. As he hunted desperately for an escape, a sign caught his eye: "Pub: Amanda and Barret's." It couldn't be any worse than maniacal birds, insane plant kids, and talking pumpkins, so he wasted no time in making a break for the door.
Hecatonchires dusted himself off and looked about, squinting in the sudden brightness, trying to trace the events that led to how he found himself outside so quickly. Last he recalled, he was being yelled at by an irate (not to mention obese) canary, then next thing he knew, he was sailing through the air, only to come to a rather sudden halt, courtesy of the rough Domina cobblestone streets. Fortunately, his fall was broken by the long-haired demon hunter.
"You okay?" Hecatonchires asked. The only response he got was a faint "Unk," so he assumed the best and stood, dusting himself off. "Unk" was, after all, not a "Help!" or even an "Ow." He mused it must be a local term meaning "No problem, any time." Rather verbose for one word, but there's no accounting for local customs... And speaking of local customs, why in the Mana Goddess' name was that kid wearing leaves?
"Hello," the sproutling said happily. "I like drinking water. I also like, you know, walking on leaves."
"Uh, that's great, kid. I was wondering, could you tell me--" he started.
"We've got no souls, you know. The poet Pokiehl said so," chimed the sproutling in the same tone.
"Uh, wonderful, but I was wondering, where can I find--" Hecatonchires started again.
The sproutling cut him off again, with the same singsong voice. "The cow isn't anywhere. It's inside my mind."
"Look, kid! I just want to know where the pub is!"
"...Pub? They make drinks made out of dead plants there. You shouldn't go there."
"Yeah, well, my clothes are made out of dead cotton plants too, so I don't think I need to wo..." Hecatonchires trailed off at the look he got from the sproutling. "You okay, kid?"
The sproutling's eyes went blank as it spoke, "You will be assimilated into the Sproutling Collective. Resistance is silly."
Hecatonchires was not dull, neither was he keen on being part of whatever bizarre cult it was that required its embittered treehugging midget members to wear leaves, so he did what any sensible person would've done. He pointed at the heap of a demon hunter, said something about how he enjoyed eating sunflower seeds, then hightailed it down the nearest convenient alley, only to discover an oversized pumpkin.
"Hey, Jack. Got any change?" it asked. At his guest's incredulous look, it continued "Yeah, I know what you're thinking. I used to be part of a plan to take over the world with giant pumpkins, but the kid who was behind it got his bum kicked by some yahoo with poor choice in headgear. So, here I am, wasting away in this back alley, washed up, just waiting for the town punks to come with baseball bats..."
Hecatonchires would have loved to stay and chat, but his better sense told him he was safer somewhere else, somewhere far away from vegetables, talkative or otherwise, especially those bent on avenging their fallen brethren. As he hunted desperately for an escape, a sign caught his eye: "Pub: Amanda and Barret's." It couldn't be any worse than maniacal birds, insane plant kids, and talking pumpkins, so he wasted no time in making a break for the door.
